


Deja Vu

by Glassdarkly



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/pseuds/Glassdarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam O'Connor is a therapist living in London. He has a very disturbing new client, who claims to be a vampire, and to have met Liam before. The boy looks familiar, but Liam is certain they're strangers. </p>
<p>Or are they? </p>
<p>All-human AU, first posted to Livejournal in 2004</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Liam stared out of the window at the trees across the road in the park. The colours were fast fading as twilight approached, but he could still make out the subtle shades of brown and red as the leaves drifted down to coat the grass. 

A sudden flurry of wind blew them into crazy, tornado patterns, and Liam shivered slightly, unsure of why even as he did so. Probably, he thought, it was because today there was a distinct and melancholy chill in the air for the first time this year. 

It felt like winter really was on its way.

Turning his back on the window, Liam went back to his desk and looked over the new client's notes again. He really didn't feel in the mood for seeing anyone this late and he wished he could have put the introductory session off until the morning. However, it seemed that the young man had insisted on an evening appointment, and it would have been ridiculous to turn down the money.

There was that house to think of that he and Francis were going to buy together in Ireland, with the land attached and the view of the sea.

Thinking of Francis, he opened his desk drawer briefly and glanced at the small, cardboard-framed photograph of his lover that rested inside it, letting his fingers run over the shape of the face and imagining them burying themselves in the curly black hair. 

It was probably not a good idea to think of that kind of thing now, Liam realised, with the new client due any moment. Best to concentrate instead on other things to do with Francis, like the way he made Liam laugh so effortlessly, and the relaxed, and very Irish, way he could talk for hours without ever being boring. Liam felt like such a fraud in comparison; only Irish next to all the tight-lipped, buttoned-up English surrounding him, a summer visitor to Galway as a child and not even that now that all his elderly relatives – the ones who hadn't emigrated – had passed away.

But never mind that. Francis was the genuine article and he was going to teach Liam how to enjoy life to the full, the way he did, and maybe one day the mystery of whatever he saw in Liam that made him think him worth the effort of trying to overcome all that off-putting reserve would be explained. 

Shutting the drawer, Liam turned back to the case notes on his desk. A young man, twenty years old - one William Aurelius by name - with behavioural problems, referred by a Harley Street doctor whose name was unknown to Liam, and who seemed to think his patient might benefit from an eclectic form of therapy. Odd name, Aurelius – rather aristocratic sounding, or maybe foreign – something Polish perhaps? - trying to make itself more melodious to English ears. 

The exact behavioural problems weren't specified but the doctor seemed to think the patient was suffering from delusions – which begged the question, was he actually schizophrenic - in which case, he shouldn't be here, but at a hospital seeing a psychiatrist - or did he have some sort of borderline personality disorder, for which Liam could counsel him?

It remained to be seen.

Liam pressed the button on the intercom:

"Can you send Mr Aurelius in, Cordelia?"

His normally very efficient receptionist replied after rather a long delay, during which he heard a deep, lazy-sounding voice talking to her in the background, saying something that made her laugh. The relaxed timbre of it struck a chord deep inside Liam, leaving him with the distinct impression of having heard it before. He frowned slightly, and then found that he wasn't at all surprised when the door was opened without a preceding knock; as if he already knew how to expect this client to behave. 

A short, slim young man – little more than a boy really - entered the room, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, and looking rather awkward in what was obviously a good pair of trousers that had turned shiny in places where they were beginning to wear out, worn over scuffed Doc Marten boots. His hair was bleached blond, combed completely flat on his head and plastered with some kind of hair gel, as if it had tried to escape and was being firmly restrained. Somewhat worryingly, a very visible scar sliced through his left eyebrow, leaving a white patch of skin through the dark-blond hair.

Liam realised that his mouth was hanging open and he shut it quickly, knowing that he was staring, which really wasn't very professional; but then, frankly, he'd never seen such a beautiful face on a man in his life – and he thought he'd seen a few. It was a narrow face, with spectacularly flaring cheekbones, supported on a long neck, itself set on wide, but not disproportionate, shoulders. And below these, it was all good too, with a narrow waist and hips, and slim legs disappearing into the ridiculous boots. 

Liam found himself wishing that the young man would turn round, just for a moment, so he could have a look at what he was certain would be a deliciously tight little backside. For a moment, he could almost feel it, as if his hands retained some memory that his mind had forgotten, and he found himself gripping the edge of his desk rather hard. Then he looked up into a pair of mocking blue eyes and realised, with an inward gasp, that this William Aurelius knew exactly what he was thinking.

Belatedly, Liam plastered a professional smile on his face and stood up, holding out his hand.

"Mr Aurelius?" he said. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Doctor O'Connor." 

His hand was taken in a cool, firm grip that also felt oddly familiar and that Liam considered lingered a moment too long, before the young man said:

"Doctor, 'ey? Thought you were some sort of counsellor, mate, not a sodding doctor."

Liam wasn't sure what sort of accent he'd expected to hear issue from that very kissable mouth, but again was strangely unsurprised on hearing it, as if it were just as expected. It wasn't Estuary, and it wasn't Mockney, but something stranded between those two, and with a kind of background suggestion of something a lot classier. Already, it was becoming clear that this boy was someone who liked to conceal things about himself and had very definite identity issues.

It was a mystery, though, why he seemed so familiar, as if they'd been intimate once. Surely, Liam thought, he could never have forgotten a face like that.

"Have a seat, Mr Aurelius," he said. "And I'm not a medical doctor, of course, but I do have a PhD in Psychology, so I _am_ entitled to call myself doctor. Some people like me to use the title because they find it reassuring, but if you don't, please ignore it. My name's Liam."

"William," the other returned, slouching down into the chair across the desk from Liam, and spreading his legs wide, in a posture that, while provocative if deliberate, seemed wholly unconscious; a small man trying to make himself look bigger. 

"You've been referred to me by Doctor Gull of Harley Street," Liam said, looking down at his notes again. "I don't think I've ever had anyone referred from Harley Street before, William."

"Yeah, well," William said, stirring restlessly in his chair, "had to come, didn't I? And I promised my mum."

"Your mother wanted you to come to me?"

"Yeah, told me she'd stop my allowance if I didn't have therapy – not twenty-one yet, see, so can't access the family loot till then – so I said okay as long as I got to choose the therapist, so she got old Gull to write a referral. Got myself all dressed up to come here an' everything, just like she'd want."

He gestured at his jacket and his now-shabby, but no doubt once very expensive, trousers, smoothing the material with his hands up his thighs in the direction of his groin in a very distracting way - and this time obviously deliberately so. Liam tried not to stare at the way those thighs bulged with muscle through the thin material, in spite of their slimness, and he managed, by a supreme act of self-restraint, to keep his eyes off William's crotch. 

"You _chose_ me?" he asked, confused, and feeling that the whole session was going somewhat off the rails before it had even started. "May I ask why?"

"Oh," said William, vaguely, "I've been wanting to meet you for ages, mate - just had trouble working out how to introduce myself, like. You know how it is – different social circles – generation gap - whatever."

Liam stared at him a moment, trying to decide again if he'd ever set eyes on this William Aurelius before. There was definitely something very familiar about him, even though Liam couldn't remember where they might have met. It was entirely possible of course, that he'd seen him in the distance in some club or pub back in the days before he and Francis had more or less given up going out, in favour of long evenings at home in front of the TV, or, more productively, at the gym and then in bed. Maybe the boy hadn't been a bleached blond then, and hadn't stood out from the crowd as much as he did now? 

"Have we met before?" he asked, at last, unsure about the matter and thinking it best to clear the air. If this boy had ulterior motives for choosing Liam as his therapist, the sessions surely couldn't be allowed to continue.

"You wouldn't remember," William said, and his gaze was suddenly curiously blank – eyes opaque, as if a veil had come down in front of them. "It doesn't matter a toss, mate. Anyway, I'm here now. Aren't you gonna ask me stuff about my life, and try and work out how crazy I am, or something?"

"Do you feel that you're 'crazy', as you put it?" Liam asked, putting aside the mystery for a moment and feeling it was best to try and get the session back on track before making any final decisions as to whether he could continue to see William or not.

"Nah," William said, and he snorted, contemptuously. "But like I said, when Mum threw me out, she insisted I had to have therapy. If I have it, she might even invite me back in the house, you never know, and I do miss my mum something terrible – so, other reasons notwithstanding, I said yes."

Liam glanced up at him quickly as he said this, hearing an oddly gloating tone in the delivery of the words, which was rather inexplicable. He was in time to see William lick his lips with a vividly pink tongue, his eyes staring off into space as he did so.

The sight set off all sorts of alarm bells, and Liam made a note on his writing pad to try and explore the client's relationship with his mother in greater depth at later sessions. There was something definitely not right there.

"Would it help to tell me why she's banned you from the house?" he asked, tentatively.

"Not really," William said, in matter-of-fact tones, "but I will anyway. She doesn't like my friends, nor my girlfriend. Can't stand her, in fact. Also, she got fed up with me chasing all her boyfriends away, stupid whore!"

The sudden venom in the boy's tone was startling and Liam was a little surprised, and strangely disappointed, in view of all the rather blatant flirting, to hear the youngster say that he had a girlfriend. He wondered if the boy was bi, or if he was just someone who liked to tease and who would run away screaming in outrage if he received any actual propositions from another man. 

He suspected it was more likely to be the former. He couldn't see this boy running from anything. 

"And have you any siblings?" Liam asked, hoping to establish a full picture of the boy's background.

"Nah. I'm an only child. What a sodding surprise, 'ey? Anyway, she seems to have forgotten that she's got nothing to be write home about when it comes to sowing wild oats or whatever, stupid cow! I mean, if she'd been a good girl, I wouldn't sodding be here at all, would I?"

"You wouldn't?"

"Had me when she was sixteen, didn't she? Got stoned at Glastonbury when she was barely legal and shagged half a dozen blokes, and the result was yours truly. She hasn't a clue who my dad is, and neither have I, and then she spent most of the 1980s snorting coke to try and stay thin, so _she's_ got nothing to be so sodding proud of – coming on all moral crusader about what I do with my time. At least I'm not a fucked up coke-head like her." 

"Who _is_ your mother?" Liam asked, now very much getting the impression that William was trying to make him do so.

"Anne LaHaye," William said. "She was a super-model back in the 80s, mate, with a dirty little secret – a string of fucking horrible boyfriends who treated her like shit and me tagging along behind like an unwanted puppy. Oh, the misery!"

He put his hand to his forehead melodramatically, then smiled a little – even batted his eyelashes slightly. Looking away rather crossly from this display, Liam couldn't help thinking that the boy _did_ have very beautiful eyes, and a very infectious smile that seemed to light up his whole face.

He remembered the name. There'd been an article about Anne LaHaye recently in one of the life-style magazines that Francis was addicted to– one of those 'Come and look round my beautiful house and pay me handsomely for the privilege' type things. He conjured up the mental image of a beautiful, blonde woman in her mid thirties, though looking much younger, dressed very expensively and posed gracefully on a couch in Neo-Georgian splendour – some minor aristocrat's daughter, she'd been. Perhaps that was where he remembered William from? Probably, he got those amazing looks from his mother.

"So, anyway," he said, "she doesn't approve of your lifestyle and friends. Why would that be, William?"

"She thinks they're a bunch of dangerous fucking weirdos and perverts, of course," William said, as if this should be self-evident, "which goes to show that she may be a bitch, but she's not a stupid bitch – not about some things anyway." 

"So they _are_ dangerous, then," Liam asked, "in your estimation?"

"'Course they are," William said, and he grinned, revealing perfect, and perfectly white, teeth. "Everyone knows vampires are dangerous, don't they?"

"Vampires?"

"Yeah, 'course, some people spell it 'V–A-M-P-Y-R-E-S' these days, but I can't be bothered with all that poncy, frilly-shirt Anne Rice shite. I'm not ashamed of what I am."

Liam had to admit that this was a new one on him. Of course, he knew that such a sub-culture existed, although he'd only come across references to it in New York, not here in London, but he'd never met anyone who subscribed to it. 

"So you're a vampire?" he asked, carefully, not at all sure what sort of reaction he'd get.

"Yeah," William said, "so I s'pose you can't really blame her for banning me from the house, can you?"

"She feels threatened by you?" Liam asked.

"She might have noticed me eyeing her neck a few times, yeah," William said, and he grinned again, and licked his lips. 

And there it was again; the oddly sexualised reference to his mother. Freud would have loved this, Liam thought - all this classic repressed – or maybe not so repressed – Oedipal desire for the forbidden, expressing itself in a totally bizarre, and possibly antisocial, way. 

Unless, of course, William was making it all up, which was possible. After all, most laymen knew enough about psychology to have heard of Freud's Oedipus complex. Maybe the boy was feeding him a line that he thought the therapist would find interesting, without realising how clichéd it was? 

"Do you consider yourself a threatening person?" he asked, carefully.

"Well, vampires usually are," William responded. "Some of them are even worse than me," and he stared rather hard at Liam, licking his lips and splaying his legs wider. 

Liam had to look away from the boy's distracting beauty and his blatant porn-magazine poses, which were making him increasingly uncomfortable. He stared down at the name 'William Aurelius' written on his notes, and saw a question waiting to be asked.

"The name Aurelius, then," he said. "Not your father's name, obviously?"

"Obviously," William said, rather mockingly. "Was given that name when I became a vampire. Posh-sounding, innit? It's an old vampire family name, like Dracula."

Liam glanced up at him again, unsure whether he was being made fun of, but William's face was completely serious. 

"So, anyway," Liam said, "you've come to me for what exactly? Do you want me to help you stop being a vampire?"

"Why would I want that?" William asked, looking astonished. "Told you, mate, I came because I told Mum I would, and because I wanted to meet you. And here I am. We can chat about the weather if you like, _I'm_ not bothered."

He leaned back in his chair and smiled complacently, hands folded on his flat belly. Liam found his eyes focussed on those hands, which were rather big for such a small man, wide and long-fingered. The nails bore the remains of black nail polish and were bitten down almost to the quick.

He remembered his warning to himself about how he could not continue to see William if the boy's motives for wanting him as a therapist were personal but – well, there was a lot wrong here. The vampire stuff was obviously harmless - some kind of sub-Goth fetish dressing type thing probably - but there were very disturbing undercurrents to it all, if true. He wondered if the boy's relationship with his mother had changed recently – whether perhaps she had another new man in her life and William felt threatened by him.

"How did you first become a – a vampire?" he asked.

"How d'you think?" William said, sounding a touch impatient. "Met Drusilla and got bit, didn't I?"

"Drusilla?" Liam asked, firmly suppressing his impulse to laugh at the name.

"Yeah. That's her vampire name, of course. Drusilla Aurelius – same family, see. I _did_ mention her. My girlfriend? Mum hates her guts."

In spite of everything, the repeated mention of a woman other than his mother as a defining influence on William's life was still a disappointment to Liam. He'd been unable to help hoping that the boy was gay – although such speculation was very unprofessional where a client was concerned - and he found himself unable, too, in spite of everything, to resist undressing him in his head, mentally making him stand up and unbutton his shirt very slowly, exposing what Liam was sure was a pale and well-defined chest – the boy looked muscular and lean as a whippet – the same hand then slipping down to his waist to open the top button of his trousers very, very slowly –

He started guiltily, thinking of Francis – although of course they'd never put chains on each other's fantasies – to become aware that William was once again staring at him very knowingly, and that one hand had indeed disappeared under his un-tucked shirt and appeared to be sliding over his own flesh in a blatant act of self-worship.

"She'll probably hate my daddy too, if she ever meets him," William said, suddenly, raising lazy, half-lidded eyes to Liam's face and licking his lips again. It was one of the most blatant come-ons that Liam had ever encountered and he found himself both aroused and amused by it. 

"I thought," he managed to say, shifting a little uncomfortably in his chair, "that you said you didn't know who your father was?"

Let the boy say what he'd meant by the word 'daddy'. Liam wasn't going to help him.

"I was talking about my human father," William said, patiently, "not my vampire daddy. He's _quite_ different." He sighed, then said: "I _really_ miss him."

Liam supposed this had to refer to whoever had inducted William into this cult, or lifestyle, or whatever it was. From William's choice of words, he found himself imagining some aging queen with a taste for very young flesh, and he shuddered slightly. It was a role he'd once been afraid of finding himself in – until he'd met Francis.

He decided to put the question aside again for the moment.

"And you enjoy the – the vampire way of life?" he asked. "You don't find it interferes with your everyday existence?"

"Of course it interferes," William said. "Not being able to go out in daylight – that's a pain. But there _are_ compensations – like eternal life an' stuff - and we have a good time and we don't care about anyone or anything – even got our own club, down Soho. Fucking brilliant place. You should come there with me some time, Liam."

"It's probably not my kind of place," Liam said, and then was secretly amused by the boy's obvious disappointment on hearing this. He was pouting very fetchingly. 

Liam felt he was beginning to get something of a handle on the situation now. William was obviously quite immature and had probably been drawn into this alternative lifestyle by some woman and this shadowy older male figure, and it had now taken over his imagination completely, and at the same time widened the estrangement he obviously felt from his mother, who was possibly absent a lot when he was a child, and who quite possibly wanted to foist yet another in a long line of stepfathers on him. The 'vampires' were like a surrogate family for him.

He _did_ seem deluded in a way, talking about the lifestyle as if it was more than just a fetish – as if it was real – but his problems obviously didn't stem from it, but from before, if he was telling the truth about his mother. She was probably the key. And, if he _was_ telling the truth, it all fit together in a very neat, and very Freudian, way.

Liam decided to turn the conversation to rather lighter subjects, asking about William's taste in music and finding it suitably Goth-y and depressing, although the boy also had a fondness for classic punk bands – seemed to think it possible that Joe Strummer might have been his father – citing _London_ _Calling_ as 'the best album of all time'. However, he'd then gone on to say that, as a vampire, he'd never consider drinking the blood of someone like Joe Strummer, because it would be a 'sodding crime', and didn't Liam agree, which was a difficult question to answer.

All the time they were talking, William continued to display himself to Liam, both consciously and unconsciously, flaunting his beauty with a breathtaking arrogance that Liam could only admire. And yet there was something sweetly vulnerable about him too – something about his eyes and the set of his head on his long slim neck, which he often tilted to the side, as if puzzled about something – that made Liam's whole body thrill to his presence in a way he hadn't felt in years. 

What he had with Francis was different, after all. For one thing, with Francis, it was real and not a fantasy. 

By the time the hour was up, Liam felt that he'd made some progress in understanding his new client, although he was still unsure of what exactly William wanted of him – whether to seduce him or just to have his desirability reaffirmed in his own eyes. The boy might or might not be bisexual – Liam had prided himself up to now on always knowing, but he found himself unsure in this case – but whether he was or not, he _was_ an extraordinary little cocktease, making a point, when he finally stood up and turned to go, of pulling up his trousers in such a way that the material moulded itself to his backside, making it quite plain that he wore no underwear and that he did indeed have a perfect rounded little rear end, plumped up with muscle, that was quite clearly asking to be fucked.

As if to make the point, William looked back over his shoulder at Liam and let his eyelashes rest for one moment on his cheek, before sweeping them upwards again to give him one last glance out of those amazing blue eyes.

"See you next week, then, Liam," he said, "and nice to have met you again."

Before Liam could question the 'again', he was gone. Liam heard him give his receptionist a cheery goodnight and then say something else to her, which was greeted with a laugh and a "Sorry – no." 

Liam realised, with an unexpected pang, that the boy was flirting with Cordelia too. Maybe he just did it to everyone? 

He went to the window and watched William emerge from the front door and cross the road into the park. He was wearing some sort of long, black leather coat – which was rather predictable really – and had the collar turned up against the wind. Leaves skirled around his feet as he entered the park and then seemed to rise up in a cloud to obscure him from sight. When they subsided a moment later, he was gone.

Liam shivered again, wondering if he was coming down with something. 

*

On the train on the way home, Liam dozed a little, as he often did, which had sometimes resulted in him having to get off further down the line and wait for the next train back to Clapham; something that always made Francis laugh fondly at him when he told him about it afterwards. 

He jerked awake out of a dream of white bodies writhing and spattered with red, of empty blue eyes staring at him, to find himself once again shivering all over. He also felt as if someone was watching him – which was absurd really, as the train was full of commuters, all very busy trying _not_ to watch each other. 

Liam was afraid suddenly and for no reason he could understand, wanting to be home, and warm and safe with Francis.

*

He opened the front door of the flat to smell cooking. Francis _did_ like to cook – mostly south-east Asian fusion-y type things, often rather spicier than Liam actually liked – and this evening the aromas of garlic and fresh ginger were especially welcoming, full of warmth and colour and most of all, life. This alone was enough to make Liam relax and shake off his fit of whatever it had been on the train, telling himself he was being stupid to let all that odd incestuous vampire stuff get to him like this. After all, it was hardly the most disturbing story he'd heard in his years as a therapist – not by a long way.

Francis heard the door shut and came out of the kitchen to push Liam back against the wall in the hallway and stick an eager tongue – tasting of chillies – into his mouth. He was short, the same height as William Aurelius, but he dominated any room effortlessly with his vividness and love of life, just as he dominated Liam in bed the way no one before him ever had. Liam had considered himself a natural top until Francis came along, but now he was not so sure. He'd never thought he could enjoy being fucked so much. 

"You're late," Francis said reprovingly. "Lucky I didn't give your dinner to the cat, love."

"We haven't got a cat," Liam said, putting his arms round his lover's waist and drawing him in for another kiss. 

"Well, I'd've gone out and found one, wouldn't I? There's plenty of starving kitties out there for sure, who'd have made short work of it."

"Sorry," Liam said, contrite, pleased to feel himself being nudged in the groin already by his lover's swelling erection. "I had a late appointment – a new client. I couldn't get away earlier."

"Well, that fat arse of yours can make it up to me later," Francis said, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "In the meantime –"

"Forget it," Liam said, "I'm suddenly not hungry – at least, not for food."

He hauled the smaller man forward and ground his cock against him, showing him what he was hungry for. Francis grinned and allowed himself to be manoeuvred backwards and into the bedroom.

Later, wrapped in Francis's arms, his head on his lover's chest, listening to the slow comforting beat of his heart, Liam said:

"Saw this new client today, like I said."

He ran a finger up and down Francis's arm, making the thick black hair lie first all one way and then all the other.

"Yeah? You going to tell me about him, or is it a her? You must get so sick of all these hysterical females - and I should know."

Francis had five older sisters and often insisted quite seriously that it had been this childhood trauma that had turned him gay, putting him off women for life.

"I'll tell you what I can," Liam said, "which isn't much. You know how it is – confidentiality and so on."

"Sure, love, I know."

"Anyway, I've never come across anything like this before. The kid thinks he's a vampire – at least, he belongs to some sort of cult, or fetish group that pretend to be vampires, and he's really bought into it."

"A what now?" Liam looked up and saw Francis staring at him, blue eyes – blue as William's – wide and incredulous.

"I know. It sounds incredible. He seemed relatively normal most of the time, but then he'd come out with these outrageous statements that did make me doubt his sanity a little."

"Maybe he _is_ crazy?" Francis said. "Sounds crazy to me."

"Oh, I don't really think so. He seemed pretty harmless – just immature and easily led, I expect - fallen in with a bad crowd, maybe. They have a club in Soho. We've probably walked past it loads of times and never realised."

"But wasn't there a case of some crazy feller who murdered a poor old biddy in Wales somewhere and drank her blood? Didn't he think he was a vampire too?"

Now that Francis mentioned it, Liam recalled the story. Suddenly, he had a picture in his head of William Aurelius, his beautiful face twisted and demonic, and blood staining his mouth like badly applied lipstick. It seemed so real, like something he might have seen in a film, or on TV, and he shuddered slightly.

"What's the matter, love?" Francis said. "Someone walk over your grave?"

He pulled Liam closer and then closed one hand around his cock, teasing it to a kind of exhausted half-life.

"It's strange," Liam said, his mind still on the events of the day at the same time as his body slowly woke up again, responding to Francis's clever attentions. "I've never seen him before, but in spite of that, I almost feel like I know him. Anything like that ever happen to you? Like déjà vu?"

"For certain sure," Francis said. "Happens all the time, but usually, it turns out I _do_ know them because I fucked them once and then just forgot them." There was an edge to his voice suddenly. "Is he coming back? Is he pretty?"

"Yes, he has five appointments pre-booked and pre-paid – all in the evening. Said he couldn't attend during the day for 'obvious reasons'. And, yes, he's a little beauty, since you ask. Arse like a peach."

"And you'd be knowing that how?" Francis said, crossly, and his hand on Liam's cock was a little more urgent - insistent. "Man, that's twisted. I don't like you looking at pretty boys if they're not me."

"Sorry," Liam said, contrite again. "I didn't mean anything. Just trying to make you jealous."

"Well, you succeeded," Francis said. "You deserve a good buggering for that, Doctor O'Connor, and when I get me strength back, that's exactly what you're going to get."

"Just don't pretend you weren't trying to make _me_ jealous with that 'I've had so many men I can't remember their faces' crack," Liam said. "Besides, he's a client, love. Strictly off-limits, even if he _was_ interested – which I don't think he is. He told me he has a girlfriend."

Even as he said it, he wondered why he was lying to Francis and not telling him about William's blatant flirting. In fact, why bring the subject up at all?

"Well, good for her," Francis said. "But if he isn't interested, there's something wrong with him." His grip tightened further, just enough to make Liam wince. "I mean, look at you!"

"Not everyone is gay, you know, even if you _are_ in denial about some men actually having the bad taste not to want to be fucked by you," Liam said, absurdly pleased by Francis's jealousy and his compliment. "You're hurting me."

"Ah, poor baby," Francis said. "Let me kiss it better."

His hand gentled, stroking instead of tugging, settling to an easy rhythm. 

Liam gave himself to the sensations, though he knew it'd be quite some while before he'd be able to come again. He squirmed a little, as Francis moved out from underneath him and wriggled his way down the bed, until his face was buried in Liam's groin and his tongue was busy making things wet and hard. Liam rested his hand on his lover's head, digging his fingers into the curly black hair, just as he'd imagined doing back at the office. He shut his eyes and suddenly, in his mind, the short, loose curls became tight and flat and gel-crusted, and he imagined opening his eyes and that hair glowing neon-white in the darkness of the bedroom.

At that moment, Francis bit him rather hard on the balls and he flinched.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"I'm a vampi-ire!" Francis said, in sepulchral tones. "I'm going to drink all your blood and make you mi-ine."

"Very funny," Liam said.

" _I_ thought so," Francis responded, and he grinned. "Now turn over, you big Irish tart, and let me get at that beautiful tight bung-hole again." 

*

As the time came round to the day of William's next session, Liam found that he wasn't sure whether he was looking forward to it or not. He'd spent far too much time during the previous week thinking about the boy; remembering little details, like the prominent Adam's apple in his slim neck that made him look strangely vulnerable and very, very young, or the restless hands picking at each other in his lap – or that deep, smoky, too-adult sounding voice, saying all those outrageous unbelievable things about his mother. 

He told himself sternly that the boy was a client, his sexuality of importance only as it bore on his case, and it wasn't appropriate to use him as a fantasy, but he found himself doing it more and more, imagining his hands stroking along the narrow muscular flanks and prising the slim legs apart to see what lay between them. One night, he was so overcome by this, that he rolled the sleeping Francis on to his belly and fucked him fast and hard, with the most perfunctory of preparation, which was greeted with an outburst of incomprehensible, and no doubt very rude, Gaelic swearing and a hot spill of cum onto the bed beneath them.

"Sod you," Francis said afterwards. "What was that for? I won't be able to walk straight tomorrow, you big git!"

Liam kissed him, rather smugly, pleased to have got to top for a change and wondering at his rather uncharacteristic passivity over the last six months. Maybe he'd relaxed a bit _too_ much in Francis's company? It was probably a good idea to shake things up once in a while. 

"Just as well you can work from home then, isn't it?" he said. "That is, if you can call messing about on computers all day 'work'."

Francis turned in his arms and kissed him rather fiercely.

"I liked it," he said, "but don't bloody do it again."

While he was speaking, Liam thought he heard a sort of ghost-voice echoing the words, a too-deep, lazy voice, issuing from a bruised, over-kissed mouth: " _I_ liked it too. Do it again now! Do it harder!"

He blinked in confusion, convinced for a moment that someone was in the room with them, and was taken by surprise himself when he was rolled on his belly in turn by a small angry Irishman and two very insistent fingers were pushing their way into his body.

"Someone needs a lesson in manners," Francis said, and kissed his shoulder, thrusting forward. Liam howled obligingly and quite spontaneously. It hurt quite a bit.

He knew the next day that Francis had marked the whole incident down as one of Liam's fantasies – and it wasn't as if Francis didn't have some of his own – but Liam felt guilty all the same. He'd invited Francis to share his home and his life, and now he felt as if he'd violated their bed with a stranger's unwelcome presence. He went to the office that day determined to be wholly professional and to see William Aurelius as nothing more than a client, like all the others. 

Of course, his resolve lasted only until the boy actually walked into the room. In spite of feeling that he'd spent the whole of the week remembering every detail of William's appearance, Liam realised that he'd actually downplayed his sheer beauty in his imagination. He felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of that incredible face, this week adorned with black eye-liner and with the hint of something artificial reddening the full mouth. 

Liam had heard him in reception flirting equally outrageously with Cordelia – thought he'd heard him ask her out for a drink, in fact – and he felt almost angry at this blatant display of ambiguous sexuality being thrust into his face; angry that the boy didn't keep it just for him. 

He put on his best, sympathetic professional manner and managed to get through the hour session without once letting his concentration drop. It was hard, though, with William splaying his legs, and once walking across the room to lean on the window sill and stare out, bending slightly so as to emphasise how very tight his jeans were. Liam looked at the ruler on his desk and was very tempted to put the boy over his knee and use it, but again, he resisted, trying to draw out of him more of the actual concrete facts and less of the ridiculous vampire fantasy.

It was hard, though. Liam felt he was really no nearer to establishing a treatment plan for William by the end of the session, although a mixture of behavioural and cognitive therapies seemed the obvious way to go. After all, the boy's behaviour was distressing to his mother and might well become so to others, so it was important to work out a strategy to help him deal with his problems, in the same way that you might do with a drug addict or an alcoholic. In fact, Liam was sure that he'd seen vampirism used as a metaphor for both those conditions, though he couldn't remember where. At the same time, some cognitive therapy might help William to understand that he _did_ have problems, something he currently seemed in denial about, continuing to blame his mother for everything. 

However, Liam was fairly certain by now that William hadn't made up any of the disturbing things he'd let drop about his home life and that he would probably benefit from some traditional psycho-analysis too, what with his obvious problematic relationship with his mother and lack of a traditional father figure – although there was, of course, this mysterious surrogate father figure – or sugar daddy, or whatever he was – who'd inducted him into the vampire cult and about whom he said very little, except that 'daddy' was going through a bad patch and needed help. 

Liam was sure that a lot more than five sessions were going to be needed and he wasn't sure whether he was glad or sorry at the prospect.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam is drawn ever deeper into William's disturbing world.

During the following three weeks, Liam found himself gradually sinking deeper and deeper into William's fantasy world, which disturbed and excited him in equal measure. It was peopled with half-seen creatures both fascinating and repulsive, and seemed lost in a sort of febrile erotic darkness that made Liam sometimes feel as if he was stuck in an episode of Twin Peaks. 

He realised that he was counting the days between each session, increasingly impatient with his other clients - although careful not to let them see it - always waiting to see the door open and that small, strangely compelling figure enter the room.

He would sit, listening as if hypnotised, to William's talk, which seemed to be opening up a world that was very strange and yet very familiar at the same time; as if it was contaminating his thoughts and making it harder to remember that there were such things as sunlight and summer and wide blue oceans – all the warm, living images and sensations that thoughts of Francis evoked in him. 

It didn't help that it was mid-November now and the nights came early, and the weather was bleak and cold. The wind was from the east and had been especially bitter recently and the trees in the park were bare of leaves, their branches suitably skeleton-like and threatening against the sky as dusk fell.

Tonight was the last of William's five booked sessions and Liam was no nearer to getting the boy to acknowledge that he had any problems other than that his mother was a 'bitch.' It seemed that his theory about the possible new stepfather was incorrect, as William made no mention of it during his occasional vitriolic diatribes about his mother's taste in men, and Liam was finding that coming up against the brick wall of William's denial was becoming quite frustrating. 

This evening, Liam would have to convince William to book more sessions if he wanted to see him again, although he was sure that it would be better for his own peace of mind if he didn't. It was becoming so very hard to resist touching the boy, who's every look and word seemed to invite that touch – almost to demand it like homage. 

It would probably be better to let him go and disappear back into his dark little world, which was probably basically harmless, after all. When it came down to it, he was just a spoilt little rich boy with more money than sense, spinning tales to make himself feel important – which of course didn't mean that his problems weren't valid – he'd obviously had a chaotic childhood, for instance – and he might even be borderline psychotic, but Liam was beginning to feel that he couldn't do much more for William, and he might even be doing himself untold harm by continuing to see him. 

He heard William's voice outside joking with Cordelia as he always did, and then the door flew open and William sauntered in, pelvis first, in his usual manner. The boy still wore his leather coat, which he normally left in reception, but was otherwise dressed for seduction, in a brown silk shirt and black jeans. He still wore those absurd boots, somewhat spoiling the effect, but the eye-liner and the gold ring now piercing the scarred eyebrow more than made up for that. There was something different about his hair today, too, Liam realised. It was not so stiffly gelled as usual and covered his head in clusters of soft little curls, which gave him a less predatory, appealingly androgynous look. 

"Hello, William," Liam said, rather warily. He thought that he knew only too well what was on the boy's mind this evening, since it seemed to be on his own mind too. It was hard not to think about it when everything about William seemed to scream, rather melodramatically: "Take me! Ravish me!" 

What a consummate slut the boy was!

"Hey," William said, and he crossed the room and stood hesitantly in front of the desk. Then he took his coat off and draped it over the chair back.

"Have a seat," Liam told him, waving a hand at the empty chair. "We have a lot to talk about this evening."

William sat down, perching rather nervously on the edge of the seat. His obvious insecurity gave Liam a sudden feeling of power, which spread pleasantly through his body and filled him with a sense of relaxation. Let the boy do the work. 

"Is something wrong?" Liam asked him. "You seem agitated."

"This is my last session," William said at once.

"It is, but you should probably book more. You need –"

William waved his hand impatiently.

"I haven’t got this wrong, have I?" he asked. "You _are_ queer, aren't you?"

"What?" Liam clenched his hands into fists, his feeling of euphoria disappearing rapidly.

William was on his feet again. 

"It's just if you aren't," he said, "all this stupid palaver was for nothing, see. I could've let Dru do this instead – but no, she said it'd be me you'd want first."

"What _are_ you talking about?" Liam said. "I really can't discuss my private life with you, William. Besides, it has no bearing on your treatment, and -"

He wasn't quite sure how it happened, but suddenly he found that William was sitting on his knee and that a surprisingly cold tongue was thrusting its way into his mouth, insistent and yet oddly tentative as well, as if not sure of its welcome. In spite of himself, Liam's body couldn't help responding to the feel of that small, very hard backside grinding into his crotch, and he put out his hand to push William away.

Too late. William had felt his response and he broke the kiss and raised his head in triumph.

"I wasn't wrong," he said, and before Liam could stop him, he was unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off his shoulders, revealing a torso as hairless and perfectly sculpted as a Greek statue, the only colour in it to be found on the two stiff little tits with their rosy nubs. Liam had only a moment to wonder how long every day the boy had spent at the gym to acquire a physique like this, when he realised that his hands had risen seemingly of their own accord to pinch the exposed nipples and then to run down the defined chest to cradle the very prominent erection tenting out William's jeans.

Instantly, the feeling of power was back, and stronger and more intoxicating than ever.

"Lock the door," he heard his voice saying, "and take your jeans and boots off."

William leaned forward to kiss him again then did as he was told, turning the key silently in the lock, then coming back towards Liam, kicking off his boots and unbuckling his belt. 

"Let me," Liam said, suddenly, and he brushed William's hands away and undid his button fly, slowly, one button at a time, as he'd fantasised doing so many times in the last five weeks. Sliding his hands down the narrow flanks, he let them gather up the denim and push it down as they went, finding as he'd suspected that William was naked underneath it. 

The boy had a delicious cock, uncut, and rather bigger than might be expected, like his hands, the foreskin rolled right back to reveal the drooling tip, the heavy balls nestling in a bush of soft, golden-brown hair. Liam cupped them in his hands, obscurely pleased with the weight of them, then ran a finger up the rampant cock and squeezed the tip gently. He looked up at William's face, and for a moment, he almost rescued himself from the trap into which he knew he was falling, seeing the boy staring down at him in triumph, at the same time as he bit his lip and shivered all over from the pressure of Liam's fingers.

Frowning, Liam took William's cock in a firm grip and held it still, caged in his hand.

"What's this all about?" he asked.

"Told you," William said, breathing very fast. "I've wanted to meet you again for ages. Couldn’t think of another way to do it – but I thought you'd crack sooner. Not many blokes could resist me this long – queers couldn't, I mean – and I was beginning to think you didn't want me. Glad to be wrong. Want you back."

"Want me back?" Liam asked. "We've never met, William, until five weeks ago."

"Yeah, yeah, if you like. But someone's tamed you, Liam, and it's all wrong. We need you – Dru and me. We need you back. _I_ need you, and I'm gonna have you."

"I rather think," Liam said, and he felt as if someone else was talking through his mouth, "that _I_ am going to have _you_ , William. Now turn round and bend over the desk. I want a proper look at you." 

"That's my daddy," William said, grinning, and again he did as ordered, planting his hands firmly on the desk and thrusting his muscular backside into Liam's face. Before Liam's brain had quite caught up with his hands, he found them resting on the two pale half-globes and squeezing the flesh between them. Again, he was overtaken by the strange feeling of familiarity. His hands had been here before. They knew this flesh – knew exactly how to draw those intimate little whimpers out of William's oh, so beautiful body. 

Liam frowned again, wondering how on earth he could remember something that had never happened; but he didn't take long to consider it. Instead, he opened the desk drawer, knowing that he'd find the pack of condoms and the tube of Astroglide still in there, left over from the days before he'd met Francis and had carried them around on the off-chance. Fumbling slightly, he unzipped his trousers, which were becoming very uncomfortable, and let his cock get some air. He kept half an eye on William as he slicked it up and rolled the condom into place, noting that the boy was shivering all over – whether in fear or anticipation, it was impossible to tell – but that he hadn't moved.

"Come on!" William said, eventually. "My arse is getting cold, mate. What the fuck are you doing?"

Liam stood up and folded himself over the boy, running caressing hands down his chest and pinching his nipples.

"What the fuck do you think?" he said. "I'm not barebacking, William."

"Wouldn't have sodding mattered," the boy said. "Vampire, remember?"

That gave Liam a moment's pause – just a moment when he remembered that this was a client, and possibly a very sick client – but his body seemed to have been seized by some outside momentum that carried him through the next few minutes of careful preparation and then very slow, careful penetration, without his mind having very much to do with it. It wasn't long before he could feel his balls resting against that sweet, muscle-plump little backside, while William panted and gasped under him.

"Jesus, that fucking hurts!" the boy said. "That's not a dick you've got there, it's a sodding barge-pole. Now fuck me, why don't you?"

Liam found himself doing just that, while wondering just who was in control here, thrusting forward into the tight channel, hands clamped vise-like round the boy's narrow hips. It felt exquisite, just as he'd imagined, and he came very quickly while William swore and banged his fists on the desk, urging him on to do it again and do it harder. Drawing the slim body back against him, Liam brought William off with a few firm strokes to his cock and a squeeze to his balls, then held him cradled in his arms, holding him tight while the boy snuffled into his shoulder, complaining that his bum hurt.

For one horrible moment, Liam thought that he'd just fucked a virgin – albeit one the very opposite of shy - but then William raised his face and grinned at him, even while the tears of pain still trickled down his cheeks.

"Best I've been fucked in ages," he said. "Not since – well, knew it would be."

He kissed Liam on the mouth and stood up, reaching for the box of tissues on the desk. 

Liam watched William clean himself up and dress. Now it was all over, he felt – not let down, because William's body had been just as exciting to fuck as he'd always known it would be – but odd and out of sorts, knowing that a line had been crossed that could never be un-crossed. Both personally and professionally, it had to have been the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life. He thought of Francis and a pang of guilt went through him. They'd never actually demanded faithfulness from each other as a condition of their relationship, but Liam knew that Francis, jealous as he was, took it as a given. He also knew that Francis had been faithful to him.

"I can't see you again," he said, abruptly.

"'Course you can," William said. "I'm sick, remember? I need help. I'm gonna book myself ten more sessions, Liam – money up front. Don't worry. Mummy dearest'll pay."

"No," Liam said. "I can't be your therapist now, William, surely you can understand that?"

"Well, can I see you somewhere else, then?"

"No – look, I live with someone, and you said you have a girlfriend. This is –"

And there was William once more astride his knee, and there went his hands cupping the jeans clad backside automatically, as if they knew what to do when his mind didn't.

"I don't care about any of that stuff," William said. "You belong with us – with me. And if the only way I can see you is by being your client, then you're not getting rid of me. Besides," he continued, preening a little, "now you've seen the goods, why would you want to?"

"You really are full of yourself, aren't you?" Liam said, exasperated but also rather admiring of the boy's confidence in his own beauty – which was not misplaced, after all.

"No," William said, "I'm full of you, and I wanna be full of you again. I want you to be with us – with me, where you belong."

"You want me to be a vampire, is that what you're saying?" Liam asked, not at all sure he liked the sound of 'where you belong.'

"When you're ready," William said, "and I'm willing to wait until you are. In the meantime, though, I've brought a little something for you – well, it's for me really, but you have to give it to me."

"What's that?"

William reached into the pocket of his long coat and brought out what looked like a dog's collar, a thick leather and metal thing with a silver buckle. He pressed it into Liam's grip, then canted his head to the side, exposing his slender throat. 

Liam weighed the collar in his hands. It was heavy and didn't look very comfortable. He'd seen plenty of such things of course, during almost two decades of clubbing, but he'd never worn one and never wanted to make someone else wear one - until now. Already, in his mind, he could picture how it would look wrapped round that slim neck, a mark of ownership on something that he felt, deep in his bones, _did_ belong, and what's more always _had_ belonged, to him. It was crazy, he knew.

He unbuckled the collar and fastened it carefully around William's neck, then sat back a little to admire it. The boy was as beautiful as sin, with his smudged eyeliner and knowing blue eyes, and the collar seemed only to accentuate his beauty further.

Liam couldn't keep the words in.

"God, you look incredible!" he said.

"Yeah, I know," William responded, smugly. "I want you to call me by my vampire name from now on, Liam. It goes with the collar, see?"

"Oh, yes? And that would be what?"

"Spike," William answered and, at Liam's mockingly raised eyebrow. "I was very young when I chose it, all right?"

"You called yourself after a dog?" Liam asked, trying not to laugh.

William pouted at him, then leaned forward and kissed him again.

"Don't mind being _your_ dog," he said. "Woof! Woof!"

Abruptly, he stood up and walked towards the door.

"Got to go," he said, "but I'll see you same time next week, Liam."

Liam didn't answer, just watched the boy go with his usual arrogant swagger of hips, heard him talking to Cordelia, asking her if she wanted to go for that drink soon, and her saying again that she couldn't, sorry. He frowned, then set his head in his hands and let the reality of what he'd just done finally wash over him. His receptionist was better able to stick to correct procedure than he was. She _knew_ that seeing a client outside work was not permissible – and there was he fucking said client on his desk. Belatedly, he wondered if Cordelia had heard them – although even if she had, she might well have thought it some kind of behavioural therapy role-playing thing.

All the same, he was very aware of her eyes on him after he said good night and headed past her desk to the door. 

He felt very depressed on the train home, and it was crowded so he had to stand, which didn't help. He wondered what on earth had possessed him to do something so stupid. Certainly, the boy was pretty, but he'd had pretty boys before, and was it really worth jeopardising his whole career – not to mention the most important relationship he'd ever had in his life – for the sake of a pretty face and a tight arse? Liam thought he must have groaned aloud, because he became aware that people were trying not to look at him even harder than usual. He also thought that he caught sight of a black coat swirling from the corner of his eye and whipped his head round, expecting to find William right behind him. But there was nothing there. 

Great, he thought, seeing things as well now. But he shivered, overcome again by the sensation that he was being watched.

*

Liam considered telling Francis what he had done for all of ten seconds after he got home. But at the first sight of his lover's face, full of tenderness and welcome, his courage failed him. He couldn't do it. He was so lucky to have Francis – something that Francis often reminded him of, with frequent mention of all the weeping and wailing that had gone on the length of Old Compton Street when it became known that Francis Doyle had settled down. It wasn't just that, of course – having someone that so many other men wanted - it was knowing that he'd never succeeded in sustaining a relationship before. He'd always managed to screw it up somehow or other – too boring, too closed off – which was ironic, considering his profession - too gloomy - whatever – and now he was busy doing it again. 

If he kept quiet, maybe it would all blow over and Francis need never know? 

Filled with contrition that fuelled a desperate fervour to make amends, Liam pulled Francis into his arms and kissed him frantically.

"God, it's been a brutal day," he said. "I've missed you so much!"

"Can see what you need," Francis said, backing him into the bedroom. "Coming right up, love."

Ten minutes later, with Francis buried in him balls deep, he heard his voice saying: "Do it harder! Come on, fucking hurt me!"

And in his head, it was William's voice saying it, and himself ploughing into the yielding body beneath him hard enough to split it open. He groaned.

"Something's wrong," Francis said, right in his ear. "You've gone all Catholic on me. Feeling guilty about something, are you?"

"No, no," he said, hurriedly. "Just want to feel you - that's all."

"Oh, you'll feel me," Francis said, and made him. 

Liam only realised that he'd fallen asleep when he woke up to find something tickling him. He opened his eyes and watched Francis's fingers moving spider-like down his chest.

"What's wrong, Liam?" Francis said. "You've been sort of strange for a while now. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Liam said, wondering if he sounded as guilty as he felt. "It's the work – listening to people's problems all day. It gets you down after a while."

"Yes, but you're a professional, love, you're used to it. Besides, why now? It's something to do with that kid who thinks he's a vampire, isn’t it? This all started back when you first saw him."

"No!" Liam exclaimed frantically, thinking that the best defence was probably attack. "What on earth makes you say that? I mean, yes, he's disturbing. He really believes in it – has a special vampire name and everything – but he's nothing compared to some of what I hear, I assure you. Like you said, I'm a professional. I'll be fine tomorrow, I expect."

"Good. I'll hold you to that," Francis said, and Liam realised, with a sinking heart, that in spite of his words, Francis didn't believe him. He hurried to change the subject and they talked for a while about the long vacation they planned in Ireland for the following summer, with the house-hunting. 

In the end, Francis fell asleep and Liam slid carefully out of bed and went and made himself a sandwich. He ate it sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his reflection in the dark window glass and wishing he could turn back the clock and make it be this morning again and he could do everything differently.

At the same time, he couldn't stop thinking about William's slim body bent over his desk, and his hands fastening that collar round the boy's neck, laying claim to him, and – he belatedly realised – being claimed in return. After all, it might just be a piece of silly fetish gear to him, but he knew that it meant a lot more than that to William – that it was an integral part of his delusion and the mysterious lifestyle that fuelled it. He couldn't see the boy releasing him any time soon.

And there was the possibility of blackmail to consider too – although why William would want to blackmail him Liam couldn't at first imagine. As a scion of the LaHaye family, he probably had more money than he knew what to do with in some trust fund somewhere, and it wasn't as if Liam was a medical doctor and could prescribe drugs. 

Even as he thought it, Liam knew that William was definitely not above blackmail but that doing it for money or drugs would never enter his head. He'd do it for what he wanted. And he wanted Liam.

*

As the weeks passed, Liam felt as if he was sinking slowly into a mire from which he would never be able to extricate himself. Every time, when he'd managed to nerve himself up to tell William – or Spike, as he now insisted on being called – that whatever this was between them had to end, he would find his resolve crumbling again the minute the boy walked through the office door with that collar round his neck. He'd had him now in every position he knew on every item of furniture in the room, and he still couldn't get enough of him. William was very eager to please and he proved very adept at cocksucking too, and so very willing to do it. 

Liam would stand, bracing himself on the desk, looking down at that curly blond head bobbing up and down at his groin and would find himself wondering how he ever got through the days when he _didn't_ see William; how he'd managed all these years without feeling this supremely talented – and very single-minded - mouth on his cock.

When he asked William where he'd acquired his enviable skill, the boy replied that he'd had a good teacher, and refused to say any more. Liam supposed that it had to have been this mysterious 'vampire' father figure, and could only be grateful to the man, whoever he was. He would go home at the end of each session, having done nothing during it except fuck and allow himself to be wholly overwhelmed by the sensations of ownership and familiarity that the boy evoked in him. 

His inhibitions and good sense which he always lost somewhere during that same period of time would return to him with a vengeance on the train, along with a healthy dose of guilt, and as often as not, he'd end up on his knees in front of Francis, his lover's cock in his mouth, almost as soon as he'd shut the front door behind him.

He found that he couldn't give Francis _enough_ attention, that he was desperate to please him in every way. He'd never in his life done so much fucking on one day a week and so much being fucked on all the others. He knew that Francis wasn't happy – that he was suspicious and quite miserable at times, but he persisted in pretending that nothing was wrong; and for a while, Francis let him.

Then, one day, two things happened at once. 

*

Liam and William lay exhausted on the consulting room floor. At least, Liam was exhausted. William seemed to be more-or-less insatiable and sometimes got quite impatient with Liam's inability to come more than once in an hour. Liam supposed it was his age catching up with him at last, making it hard to keep up with the youngster, who didn't grow any less demanding as the weeks went by.

He'd learned over time to tease the boy along, stripping him slowly one garment at a time, caressing every inch of his body until he was so over-sensitised, he was practically screaming into Liam's hand over his mouth; then taking his time making him come, forcing him to beg for it, which he did very prettily. And finally, while the boy lay soft and pliant and relaxed, Liam would fuck him slowly and luxuriously as William sucked on his fingers and urged him to do it harder, deeper - deeper; to never stop. 

The feeling of power that this gave Liam was an incredible rush, as was the fact that they always ended up with William stark naked apart from his collar, while Liam himself was still almost fully clothed. It wasn't that Liam was ashamed of his body; he knew that he was in pretty good shape for his age, and he went to the gym regularly three times a week to keep it that way. It was more for the sense of control that it gave him, of being the one with the power – although deep inside, he knew that the impression was wholly false, considering the effect that William had on him.

Now Liam held the cool naked body close to him, one arm around William's waist, the other pillowing his own head. William's skin was always surprisingly cool, but he denied ever being cold, claiming that this was quite normal for vampires and Liam shouldn't fuss. Remarks like this had ceased to worry Liam; he'd heard too many of them now and they'd faded into a sort of background chatter – an unwanted, and mostly ignored, reminder that William was supposedly a client.

"I think it's time you came with me to the club to meet Dru," William said, suddenly. "What about tomorrow night?"

"What?" Liam raised his head, which didn't feel very comfortable anyway, staring at William in surprise. "Will – er, Spike, why would you want me to meet your girlfriend? Why would you even want her to know about – about us?"

William grinned in his usual rather sly fashion.

"Look, Liam," he said, "just because you're scared to tell your live-in lover boy about me doesn't mean that I feel the same about my girl. It was her idea, you know, for me to show you the error of your ways, an' that. She _wants_ to see you – misses you too."

"Not sure _I_ want to see _her_ ," Liam said.

William's fingers slid inside Liam's un-tucked shirt and began to play idly with his nipples, teasing them to stiffness with his cool touch, making Liam shiver a little.

"Not sure you've got a choice, mate," he said, lightly.

Liam pushed his hand away and sat up.

"What do you mean?" he said, angry, and mentally kicking himself yet again for his monumental folly. 

William was smirking at him quite openly now.

"What do you think I mean?" he said. "I don't really have to spell it out, do I? Profes-s-sional miscon-n-duct!" he added, in a teasing, sing-song voice. 

Furious both with William and with himself, Liam got to his feet, adjusting his clothes and glaring down at the boy. However, he knew he didn't have a leg to stand on, just as he'd always known that this would happen eventually.

"Done this before, have you?" he asked, bitterly. "You and this woman?"

For answer, William sat up slowly and wrapped his arm round Liam's leg, looking up at him through his lashes, still smirking.

"Don't be like that, Liam," he said. "You never know, you might have fun. Looks like you could do with some, the way you're so desperate for a shag whenever you see me. Lover boy not keeping you satisfied, eh?"

Liam's first impulse on hearing this was to kick William across the room, but he restrained himself firmly. Something told him that the boy would enjoy it too much – knowing that he'd got a rise out of Liam with his words, even though they weren't true.

They weren't. They really weren't. Before Francis, Liam knew that he'd never known what real intimacy was, and he was kicking himself yet again for endangering that intimacy for the sake of this nasty little piece of work, with his angelic face and so very fuckable arse. It wasn’t even like this was the first time he'd got obsessive over a pretty face. It had happened over and over again when he was younger, but he'd thought that, with Francis, he'd finally outgrown it and had put that predatory phase behind him. 

Why were things so different this time that he'd been willing to risk everything? 

"What is it about you?" he said aloud. "What have you done to me?"

William was still holding his leg, his face solemn now.

"I've done what vampires do," he said. "I've seduced you and got you so hot for me that you'll never be able to give me up – "

"Don't flatter yourself, _Spike_ ," Liam said, nastily, trying to put all the contempt he was currently feeling towards the boy into the way he said the ridiculous name. "Just now, I'd give you up in a heartbeat, really I would."

"Just now, maybe," William said. "But what about tomorrow, Liam - and the day after that? Do you really want to live without me? Think about it."

A very vehement 'yes' was on the tip of Liam's tongue, but then William moved his head just slightly and the lamplight in the room caught on the metal buckle of the collar round his neck, accentuating the graceful curve of throat and shoulder, and Liam felt a long, cold shudder run through his body.

William was right. Having had a taste of this boy, Liam knew with a cold, hopeless certainty that he'd never have enough of him and that every man he fucked from now on would always suffer in comparison. He could never give him up, not even for Francis. 

"If I come with you tomorrow," he said, "you'll be satisfied, will you? You won't ask me again?"

"'Course not," the boy said. "I won't need to, will I?"

He said this a touch impatiently, as if it should be self-evident, and the words made Liam shiver again.

"All right," he said. "I'll meet you and this woman of yours at your wonderful vampire club tomorrow night. Just tell me where it is."

William gave him an address in a Soho back street, which didn't surprise Liam much. He thought that, as he'd said to Francis, he must have been past the place innumerable times and never noticed it, lost in all the other strip joints and bars and sex shops that cluttered the area. It might not always have been a vampire club, of course. Everything in Soho was mutable.

William was rubbing himself against Liam's leg again, his greedy cock already at half-mast. Liam thought about leaving the boy gagging for it, to teach him a lesson, but in the end – partly because of William's implicit threat, and partly because the boy was simply too beautiful to resist – thought better of it and hauled him to his feet. He sat down in his chair and pulled William onto his knee, marvelling all over again at how the round, plush curves of the boy's backside fit so beautifully into the hollow of his lap, and how familiar it felt to have them there. He toyed with the already drooling cock, swiping his thumb across the slit and rubbing moisture over the head. 

"Do you want me to make you come again?" he hissed in the boy's ear, pushing his head to the side so that the white, leather-bound throat was fully exposed. William nodded, panting.

"Well, don't be so stupid as to threaten me ever again, you little shit," Liam said, venomously, and felt a sense almost of despair when all the response this provoked from the boy was an excited in-drawn breath and a full-body shiver. 

Liam made him come with a few quick, workmanlike pulls and strokes, then wiped his sticky hand on William's torso, still angry and wanting to humiliate him. William, however, proved un-shockable, as usual, merely inhaling deeply, as if he liked the smell.

"Next time make it _your_ come, then," he said, grinning and bouncing to his feet to get his clothes. Annoyed at his inability to hit back at the boy and make it count, Liam swatted the retreating backside hard with his hand, making William skip a couple of steps then turn to leer at him cheekily.

"What a big, hard hand you have," he said. "Just like I remember. My bum always did like your hand."

"I think you have me confused with someone else," Liam said, wearily, but William ignored him.

He began to dress, saying:

"We have a bit of a dress code at the club, mate - nothing fancy. Just wear black and you'll be fine – oh, and no crosses or anything stupid like that."

He swung his leather coat round his shoulders and made for the door, looking back once to grin at Liam, with a mixture of anticipation and triumph. He didn't bother to close the door behind him, and Liam heard him talking to Cordelia, asking her out for that drink yet again. To his surprise, he heard her say:

"Okay, then. Just the one, if that's what it'll take to get you to shut up."

"Fucking brilliant!" William said. "See you in a bit, then."

Liam realised that Cordelia was staring at him, as William departed in the other direction. Her eyes challenged him to say something, and he knew in that moment that she'd been aware of what was going on the whole time between him and his client. He wanted to ask her why she'd said nothing, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. It was the same with Francis: don't mention it and perhaps it'll go away.

He walked past her with a muttered 'good night' and went to catch the train home. 

*

He could smell the cooking aromas before he even opened the flat door. Francis had been busy. The table in the kitchen was properly set with their best china and glassware and there were candles already lit. Francis was stirring something that smelt incredibly good. He turned as Liam came up behind him and allowed himself to be kissed, but Liam could sense the tension in his lover's body.

"That smells fantastic," he said, to have something to say. "What's the occasion?"

He had a moment's horrible fear that he'd forgotten some kind of anniversary – although Francis was not one to mark such things anyway – and was overwhelmingly relieved when Francis said:

"No occasion. I just felt like spoiling you, love. You work hard all day, listening to people pouring out self-centred shite. You should get some reward for it, don't you think?"

" _You're_ my reward," Liam said, and he really meant it as he said it, just as he always meant it every week when he told Francis how much he loved him a few hours after fucking William. He moved to take Francis in his arms, only to have his lover turn and fix him with a hard, cold stare.

"Am I?" Francis said. "Lately, it hasn't felt like it. It's felt like you were a million miles away a lot of the time."

A fist seemed to grab Liam's heart and begin squeezing it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know I've been preoccupied. I'll try to do better, love, I promise."

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Francis asked, and his eyes were pleading – for what, whether lies or the truth, Liam didn't know. He rested his forehead against the smaller man's and held him tight.

"Only that I love you," he said.

Francis allowed him another kiss then, but his eyes were unreadable, and Liam didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed. He just knew that Francis knew he was lying.

They discussed only banalities over dinner – the day's news, the holiday - then cleared away in almost total silence. Afraid of being overwhelmed by it, Liam switched on the television to see the late news bulletin, only to discover that he'd missed it and the local news for London was already on. There was a long piece about the congestion charge and Ken Livingstone's chances of being re-elected as mayor, and Liam watched it without interest. However, his ears and in fact his whole body, perked up at the next news item.

It appeared there had been an attempted break-in and some graffiti damage at a very smart house in Portman Terrace, Belgravia, belonging to former super-model Anne LaHaye. The reporter was shown in front of the house, which was a typical Belgravia Georgian mansion, and there was some archive footage of Anne LaHaye in her modelling days, walking down the catwalk, swinging her hips aggressively while she pouted at the camera, wearing something absurdly diaphanous and short, through which her small, almost boyish breasts could be seen quite clearly.

God, she was beautiful, Liam thought - just like her son. He supposed that William's unknown father must have been quite a short man, because he certainly hadn't inherited his mother's height; but apart from that, he might have been her male twin, with the same astonishing cheekbones and long, slim legs and the same startling blue eyes. He watched mesmerised, as the picture changed to one of a tall, elegant woman getting out of a chauffeur-driven car and holding a hand in front of her face to shield it from the cameras as she walked towards her front door. From what little could be seen of her, the years hadn't marked her much. She could have been William's sister, rather than his mother. The door was opened from inside to let her enter and then slammed in the reporters' faces, revealing the house number – 17 – clearly as it did so. There was a scrawl of graffiti across it that read, _'Coming_ _for_ _you_ _soon_ , _bitch_!' 

Abruptly, the camera returned to the reporter, telling the viewers that Miss LaHaye had declined to be interviewed and that the police were investigating; and then Francis stepped in front of the screen and switched off the television.

"Why are you suddenly so interested in that skinny bitch?" he said, venomously. "You thinking of changing sides in your old age, Liam?"

Liam stared at him in astonishment. Francis was not a woman-hater. He would be the first to tell you that, with five sisters, he couldn't afford to be. It was out of character for him to say something like that and it showed how angry he really was.

"Sorry," Liam muttered. "Not really interested – just watching for the sake of it."

They went to bed early. Francis turned the lamp off at once and they lay in the dark next to each other, neither speaking. At last, unable to bear the silence any longer, Liam turned to take his lover in his arms. Again, Francis let him, but he didn't attempt to cuddle up to Liam, lying quiescent in his embrace. At last, he said:

"Let's go out tomorrow night, Liam. We haven't been clubbing in fucking ages."

"I can't," Liam said, at once. "I have to work late, love, and it's Tuesday. Maybe Friday would be better?"

"Seeing vampire-boy, are you?" Francis said, bitterly.

"No," Liam protested, knowing that he sounded defensive. "It's someone else – a different client."

"You're a crap liar, Liam, you know that?" Francis said, and he sounded weary. "I've been waiting six fucking weeks for you to come clean and tell me you're shagging the little slut. I waited, even though it's not in me nature to be patient, and you keep on lying, and you keep on sounding like what you are – a two-timing whore."

"Oh, God!" Liam lay still. He didn't know what to do or say. Suddenly, Francis sat up and turned the lamp back on.

"What is it about him," he demanded, "that makes him so fucking special? Tell me!"

"You're wrong, you're wrong!" Liam found himself saying – unable to bring himself to admit the truth to Francis, even now he was cornered. It would mean too much. It would mean admitting that he'd allowed himself to be seduced by a boy fifteen years his junior; that he'd allowed William's weird familiarity and his strange infatuation with him to invade every corner of his life and take it over - and destroy everything else in the process.

He couldn't do it, even though he knew it was true.

"If I'm wrong, come out with me tomorrow night. Let me show everyone that you're still mine," Francis said, "that you still want me the most."

Liam understood this for what it was – a sort of peace-offering, an offer to let bygones be bygones, to forget this had all happened and let things go back to normal. He seized on it, knowing that it was more than he deserved.

"All right," he said. "I'll come home after seeing the client and we'll go out – wherever you want to go, love, I promise."

"You'd better mean that," Francis said. "This is your last chance, Liam."

He lay back down on the pillow and folded his arms behind his head. After a moment, he said, bitterly:

"God, when I remember how much other fellas envied me when they knew I'd gone and caught meself Liam O'Connor. If only they knew!"

This was the first Liam had heard of this. Francis had always made out that he, Liam, was the lucky one to have snared Francis Doyle. And in truth, he'd felt lucky, knowing how popular Francis was and how he always had his pick of the cherry boys and of anyone else he fancied, for that matter. Everyone knew that being fucked by Francis was like being ridden to heaven and back - everyone. 

Liam hadn't been able to see what Francis saw in him and now – especially now – he still couldn't see it. 

"I'm sorry," he said again, even though he still hadn't confessed to anything. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I should have listened," Francis said, "to all those sad queers that you'd had before me, and who told me how untouchable you were. You are, Liam. Where the fuck do you go, inside your head?"

"I don't mean to," Liam said, hearing desperation in his own voice now. "I don't mean to go anywhere. I want to be here with you, love. Really I do."

Francis turned to look at him, and his face softened just a little. He reached out and touched Liam's cheek.

"Turn over," he said. "I'm going to fuck you."

Five minutes later, face buried in the pillow and with the slow, delicious burn spreading from his backside through his whole body, Liam felt tears starting to his eyes. In spite of the endearments that Francis was now whispering in his ears, he couldn't help feeling that this was the last time he'd have the opportunity to know this sensation – this total, melting surrender. 

Francis might not have admitted it to himself yet, but Liam knew he was as good as finished with him.

He lay quiescent, feeling the smaller man's heated touch on his back and inside his body and the tears leaked from his eyes, making the pillow wet. He clenched his teeth, thinking that maybe it wasn't too late. He could go to the vampire club for an hour then come home and take Francis dancing – and if Francis wanted to pick up some boy himself, then let him. Liam had enough to make up for, and he felt he'd do anything rather than lose this intimacy forever.

"I love you," he said, hopelessly, and felt his lover's kiss between his shoulder-blades.

"Just come home tomorrow night," Francis said.

He came with a sigh and his body relaxed onto Liam's, asleep in moments, with no attempt at any kind of reciprocity. Once he was sure that Francis was deeply asleep, Liam slid out from underneath him very carefully and went into the bathroom to clean himself up. He switched on the shaving light over the mirror and stared at himself. He looked tired, he realised, and his face was thin. Deep inside, he felt hollowed out, and there was a cold knot in his belly that he realised was there all the time now, only loosening a little when he was with William. He didn't know what that knot was – whether fear or yearning. He just knew that he wished it would go away and that he could forget he had ever met William Aurelius.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam learns yet more disturbing things about William, then has to face up to the terrible consequences of his actions.

When Liam arrived at his office the next day, it was to find the place still locked up. This was unprecedented, as Cordelia arrived punctually at eight-thirty every day and he'd normally find everything ready and the coffee-maker on for his own arrival at nine. Frowning, he fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, then went through the empty reception area to his office. He picked up the phone, but there was no message from her to say she was sick, or would be delayed for any reason.

He called her home number and got the answer phone, so he left a message for her to contact him if she wasn't able to come to work. Afterwards, he flicked through his appointment book and discovered that he was fully booked. There was no option but to divert the phone calls on to the message service and deal later with whatever arose from his being unavailable.

By five-o-clock, when the last client left, Liam was beginning to realise just how indispensable Cordelia was. He felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than to take the train home and stay there. He listened to the messages, saved a couple of rather hysterical calls from one of his female clients, who had been trying to reach him all day, to be dealt with tomorrow, and deleted all the rest. There was still no word from Cordelia and, when he tried calling her at home again, he once more got the answer phone. It was at this point that his irritation with her began to shade over into concern, as he remembered that she'd been going for a drink with William after work the previous day. He hoped the boy didn't have anything to do with her non-appearance today.

Liam glanced at his watch. He needed to try and be home by seven-thirty if he possibly could, so he hurried to lock up and take the tube to Leicester Square, which was the nearest station to the address William had given him. He'd dressed in black trousers and a black shirt, as William had suggested, and he felt a little self-consciously monochrome as he turned into the side street – not much more than an alley really – where the club was supposed to be.

The entrance, when he found it, proved to lead downstairs to a basement, which didn't surprise Liam much. He'd speculated on the likely décor of the place, and his imagination had it strewn with open coffins and cobwebs sprayed out of an aerosol can, with plastic bats hanging from the ceiling. How likely this was, he didn't know. 

At the bottom of the stairs, he was confronted by a thick wooden door with a security grille in it at eye-level. A notice on the door read: _'Private_ _Club_ : _members_ _only_.' Liam hesitated for more than a moment – he really, really didn't want to go through that door for all sorts of reasons – but then he gritted his teeth, knowing that he had to do this, and he had to get it over with as quickly as possible, and knocked hard on the door.

The security grille shot open at once and he found a pair of yellow – yellow! – eyes regarding him. 

"What do _you_ want?" a belligerent voice asked. "This is a members only club, an' I ain't seen you before. Fuck off."

Shaking slightly and thinking firmly about coloured contact lenses, Liam said:

"I'm here to meet William Aurelius – Spike, that is. He's expecting me. My name is Liam."

He wasn't going to give this freak his surname - that was for sure. 

To his surprise, the change in the bouncer, or whatever he was, was immediate.

"Sorry, sorry, master!" he said. "You should have said so at once. Please come in and forgive my rudeness."

Liam blinked at him, surprised, and then the grille slammed shut and he heard the sound of bolts being drawn and a key in a lock. The door swung open, and he stepped through, inching past an enormous, bald-headed man, dressed all in black, who was bowing to him as if he were some kind of royalty. 

"Spike is inside," the man said, and he sounded afraid. "Please go through, master, and please, I'm so sorry!"

This abject fawning was so patently absurd that Liam felt like laughing. He relaxed, pleased to discover that the vampire club and its members were proving to be just as ridiculous as he'd always thought they must be. 

He went on down a dimly lit corridor with red-painted walls, then pushed through a curtain of black leather strips into a huge underground space – much bigger than he'd been expecting – intersected with metal spiral staircases, leading who knew where, its walls draped in diaphanous black, and full of shadowy figures obscured by a foggy drift of what Liam had to assume was dry ice. Music was playing – something gloomy and Goth-y-sounding, but not too loud, merely adding to the strange, dreamlike ambience. 

Liam blinked again in the dim light, trying to make out faces on the figures nearest him. He had the impression that some people were wearing masks, and not very attractive ones at that, which surprised him. He was sure that he'd read somewhere that most vampire cultists idolised physical beauty. 

"Liam!" a voice said, behind him. He turned to find himself looking at William. The boy was without his long leather coat, but now he wore leather trousers, tight-fitting as gloves, starkly outlining his crotch, and a shirt of some kind of metallic looking material, silvery-black, almost like chain mail. His eyes were outlined in black eye-liner, while his lips looked red in the dim light, accentuating the pallor of his face, and his hair was ruffled up into soft, pale curls over his head. With the collar on prominent display round his neck, he looked more beautiful than ever. 

"Will – er, Spike – " Liam began, only for the boy to lean forward and kiss him on the lips, then to almost swarm up him like a monkey climbing a tree, grinding himself against him, seizing Liam's hands and placing them firmly on his buttocks, over which the black leather was pulled as taut as a second skin. Liam's body responded to William's as it always did and he pulled him closer, kissing him back. 

Suddenly, Liam felt a sharp sensation on his lips and the boy fell away from him, laughing a little, mocking him. Liam raised a finger to his mouth and it came away wet. He realised that William had bitten him, and at that moment, the boy opened his own mouth to reveal a set of impressive, and very realistic, white fangs. 

"Jesus! What the fuck did you bite me for?" Liam exclaimed, angrily, his brain already frantically trying to work out how he was going to explain the mark to Francis, wild stories dancing round in his head of a client going crazy in the consulting room and having to be sectioned on the spot and dragged away by the men in white coats – after having bitten Liam first. 

"Been too long since I had a taste of you. Sorry," William said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "Let me get you a drink, Liam."

He took Liam's hand in his and led him across the dim room to a bar, past groups of people who seemed to part for him, whispering, and then gather in behind him. The barman was dressed in black, his long grey hair spilling down his back and round pebble shades over his eyes.

"Two Blood Baths, Victor," William said. "The special ones, mind."

"Coming right up, master," the man said, at once, and it seemed to Liam that he was almost touching his forelock as he hurried to obey William.

"What's with all the bowing and scraping?" he whispered, glancing at his watch as he did so and seeing that it was already getting on for seven. He had half an hour, at most.

William's hand was on his arm, as if claiming ownership.

"Oh, the name 'Aurelius' has a lot of clout round here," he said, carelessly. 

The drinks were brought. Two absurd-looking glass goblets full of some unidentifiable red liquid. It wasn't blood, of course – in fact, it smelt of cranberry juice – but Liam hesitated before putting it to his lips all the same.

"Not _afraid_ , are you?" William said, and he sounded amused.

Irritated, Liam said:

"No, Spike, I'm not afraid. Just not keen on alcohol this early in the evening, that's all."

He sipped the drink and found it reasonably pleasant – mostly red wine, with cranberry juice as he'd guessed, plus some other ingredient he couldn't quite place that tasted oddly metallic.

"Raspberries," William said, blandly, as if reading his mind. "She tasted of raspberries." And before Liam could ask him what on earth he was talking about: "Drink up, mate, and let's go and find Dru."

Liam still had no desire whatsoever to meet William's girlfriend, or whoever the hell this Drusilla woman really was, but he knew he wouldn't get away without doing so first. He followed the boy across the cavernous space – it must be several basements all knocked into one, and he found himself hoping that a structural engineer had looked round it at some point – aware once again of being stared at by people who averted their eyes whenever he looked at them directly, but who bowed to him as if he was someone important when they realised he'd seen them looking. There was a lot of black and crimson, lace and silk and leather, eyes both yellow and red – and a lot of those very ugly masks too – some kind of clever plastic prosthesis, it looked like. And everyone seemed to be sporting the vampire denture sets, just like William.

They were all pretty pathetic, Liam thought, wishing suddenly that he'd discomfited William entirely by bringing Francis with him and that he and his lover could have compared notes afterwards and laughed about the whole thing. He realised, too, that he no longer thought of William as a client in any way, or else he'd have been looking at his surroundings with more attention, trying to get more of a sense of how these trappings underpinned the boy's notion of himself.

As William's therapist, he should probably have come here weeks ago. 

He was still sipping his drink. It tasted pretty good, once you got used to the metallic aftertaste. He might even have another before he went home, he thought.

Then, William's voice:

"Dru - princess! Here you are! Look who I've brought."

Liam came back to the present abruptly, to find himself faced with a girl, dressed – unlike anyone else in the club – all in white. She looked ethereal – almost ghostly – in the dim, misty light, her head held proudly on her long slender neck, like a delicate flower on its stem. She was tiny – considerably shorter than William – and childishly slim, her dark hair got up in some strange, old-fashioned style that spilled serpentine tendrils down her neck and back. Her eyes were enormous, and pale blue; frighteningly blank and yet knowing at the same time. 

Liam knew at once and with the coldness of absolute certainty, that she was completely insane. 

And, like William, she was familiar. Liam tried to grab hold of the memory of when he had seen her before, but it slipped from his clutch, as ephemeral as fog.

The girl – she was older than William, Liam thought, maybe in her mid-twenties – stepped up to him and put a hand on his chest, gazing up at him.

"Ooh," she said. "He's _beautiful_ , Spike, just like I remember. Is he going to stay with us now? Have you worked hard like a good boy and brought him back to us for good?"

"I've tried," William said, his voice full of smug laughter. "He's still got a taste for my arse, Dru, just like you said he would have. You're always right, princess, I should have remembered that."

Then the two of them were kissing, hungrily, as if they hadn't seen each other for a long time, although neither of them let go of Liam for a moment. He felt odd, watching them, as if he was seeing them from far away, through the wrong end of a telescope, and the picture was changing. 

Suddenly, he was in a dark bedroom, standing in front of an old-fashioned canopied four-poster bed. The girl, Drusilla, lay spread-eagled on it, her white dress rucked up above her flat belly, her slender legs splayed wide. William stood between her thighs, wholly naked, the muscles in his buttocks clenching and un-clenching as he thrust forward into her, the sound of flesh slapping on flesh loud in the room. Liam could see where William's hands gripped the undersides of the girl's thighs, as if trying to force them even further apart, could see the imprints of his nails in her flesh. Her eyes were closed. 

As often happens in dreams, Liam found his role changing from that of voyeur to active participant, and suddenly he was pressing himself against William's smooth, pale back, teasing him open with fingers that were already oily and slick. And then he was pushing forward into the boy, even as the girl beneath them both opened her eyes and smiled, revealing her own ivory fangs, to say:

"That's right, Daddy, fuck us."

Liam swayed slightly on his feet, shaking his head, trying to focus on what was in front of him. It was hard. He felt as if his feet were miles away from his head; as if he was almost floating. William and the girl stood before him now, heads together, cheek to cheek, gazing at him from identical blue eyes. Chilled, caught in that predatory double regard, Liam wondered how he could ever have thought William sane. He and this girl Drusilla were a matched pair, as exotic and inhuman as poisonous serpents. 

He shook his head again, trying to clear his mind, to make himself remember that they were just silly children playing games, but somehow, he couldn't do it. His perspective was all wrong.

The girl licked her lips.

"He's coming back to us," she hissed.

Liam grabbed William by the arm and hauled him away from her, shaking him roughly.

"What did you do to me, you little shit?" he shouted, the sudden silence that enveloped the place in the aftermath of his raised voice feeling as close and heavy as a shroud wrapping him round and stifling him. He shook his head yet again, still trying to clear it, belatedly dropping the glass goblet to the ground and hearing it smash. "You put something in my drink, didn't you? What the fuck was it?"

William was smiling up at him, beautiful and sinful and very, very smug.

"Ketamine," he said. "I borrowed some from the zoo when I was down that way yesterday – and another special secret ingredient that I got from a friend. Don't worry mate, you'll be fine tomorrow. I just put enough in to get you all nice and relaxed, so you could enjoy yourself better, yeah?"

Liam pushed him, sending him sprawling to the ground in the midst of the broken glass. He felt full of righteous fury, and at the same time William's face was fading in and out, as if his perception of it was changing somehow. When did the boy put those yellow contacts on? And the crowd that had gathered round them seemed to have fused itself into a collective shadow that whispered and tittered and surged backwards and forwards, nearer and then further away again.

Somewhere –strangely – Liam thought that someone must be praying. At least, he was sure he heard the word 'Angelus', running through the crowd like a Chinese whisper passed from person to person, growing more and more distorted as it went. He wondered at the inappropriateness of a morning prayer in a place like this, and then realised that he'd almost lost his balance, as if his head were too heavy for his body and was dragging him down. 

"Oh, God!" he said, and he swayed again slightly and leaned against the balustrade of one of the metal staircases to support himself.

"Has William displeased you, Daddy?" the girl – Drusilla – was saying, her voice strangely distant and yet far too close at the same time, a sibilant whisper in his ears. "He _can_ be a very bad boy. You should punish him, and I can watch."

"No!" Liam said, and then, "Yes!"

Drusilla snapped her fingers and hands came clawing forward at William's prostrate form, dragging him away into their midst. Liam saw his white face in passing, and it was grinning at him, exposing those gleaming fangs, which were stained with red. Something was being pressed into his hands – some kind of leather scourge. Just for a moment, the absurdity of the whole thing overcame Liam again – he felt as if he was caught up in the shooting of an incredibly bad S&M porn movie – and he laughed, only to have Drusilla laugh with him, and the sound of her voice seemed to drive away the last vestiges of reality. He felt as if he was floating in space, anchored to earth only by the sound of her voice, and by the sight of William's naked body, arms held firmly at shoulder height in a sort of cruciform shape by two hulking dark shadows on either side of him.

"Hold him still," Liam heard his voice saying, but it didn't sound like his voice any more. He'd never been that cold – that controlling. "And make him kneel."

The shadow shapes were turning William round and pushing him down. The boy sank gracefully to his knees, arms held now above his head, arching his smooth back towards Liam. His pale skin glowed in the dim light, the cleft between his buttocks a clutching velvety darkness. Liam felt his cock straining at the front of his trousers, wanting to plunder that darkness and make it bleed.

"Hurt him," came Drusilla's pale whisper in his ear, and he raised the scourge and brought it down hard, a long striping of red whipping across the boy's back, as if someone was cutting it open from within. William screamed, but he didn't struggle.

"Hear how beautifully he screams?" Drusilla said. "Make him bleed for me, Daddy."

And Liam did, raising the scourge again and again, until a criss-cross pattern of lash-marks marred that perfect back and William hung moaning – whether in pleasure or pain, it was impossible to tell - from his captors' grip. It was only then, staring in puzzlement at the damage he had done, head full of whispers and shadows, that Liam realised every tail of the scourge was tipped with metal. 

He swayed on his feet again, feeling Drusilla slip past him like a ghost to kneel down behind William and bend to lick the pooling blood from his back. Abruptly, Liam felt sick and he staggered slightly, only to find his own arms captured by hands that held him up and imprisoned him at the same time. He was sweating heavily, his erection painful in its intensity.

And then there was a rush of movement, as his captors hurried him forward, his feet crunching on broken glass, until he was standing right behind William, gazing down at him and at Drusilla, who had slipped round to stand in front of the boy. Again, she snapped her fingers impatiently and William was raised to his feet. Her small, dainty hand tangled into his hair and pulled his head back so that he was gazing up at Liam from below, exposing his pale throat and the collar that bound it. The pupils of his eyes had expanded in the gloom, almost eclipsing the blue entirely and tear tracks marked his cheeks, but he licked his lips and grinned, not looking at all like someone who'd just undergone a painful beating.

"William is sorry, Daddy," Drusilla said, "and now he wants to make it up to you, don't you, William?" 

"Yeah, "William said, at once, and his voice still held that note of smug triumph. "Let me make it up to you, Daddy, like a good little boy should."

His thrust his rump backwards into Liam's crotch, and at the same time he groaned. At first, Liam thought it was with the pain in his back, but then he realised that Drusilla had her hand at the boy's own crotch and was doing something with it there that had caused his outburst.

William groaned again and thrust forward into Drusilla's waiting hand, and suddenly Liam was overcome by another burst of fury and he tore himself from his captors' grip, desperate to release his cock from its own captivity and sink it into that willing, sinful flesh. There was a buzzing noise in his ears and a kind of film over his eyes, and his brain made no connection between the dripping wetness in William's cleft and the bleeding lash marks on his back. He wasted barely a moment to scissor his fingers before pushing forward and in, his brain hardly registering the high keening note of pain that came from the boy's throat, which was quickly stifled as Liam bent down to take possession of his mouth, while Drusilla's frail-looking arm continued to pump expertly, faster and faster.

All around them, voices were whispering louder and louder, the words unclear, whether encouraging or damning, Liam neither knew nor cared. He felt that hot, tight wetness loosening and tearing around him as he thrust harder and harder, until he came and hands plucked at him again, holding him up, and Drusilla whispered,

"That's my good little boy, come for mummy," while William snarled at her throat and tore at it with his fangs, emptying himself into her hand.

The smell of blood was overwhelming. Abruptly, Liam felt a convulsing in his belly and then his guts seemed to re-arrange themselves and he vomited, burning red liquid spewing from his mouth and nose and out onto the floor. He stood, panting and heaving, feeling as if his body was once more in touch with his brain, staring aghast as William and Drusilla turned again to face him, eyes bright and eager. The girl's mouth was stained with blood – the very same blood that dripped down William's legs to puddle on the floor in its turn. Drusilla raised her hand and beckoned.

"No!" Liam said, suddenly, and he began to back away from them. "What the fuck just happened? What have you done to me?"

He turned, hauling himself up the metal balustrade, mounting the stairs while their pale faces sank away into the foggy darkness beneath him. He heard Drusilla say:

"You told me he would stay! Mummy is very cross, you bad, bad boy!"

And then William's voice, full of lazy self-confidence.

"He'll be back, Dru. Where else can he go now? Who will have him apart from us?"

Liam began to run, stumbling slightly on the steps, almost falling. He told himself it was the drug, and that, just like when drunk, he must be careful not to attract attention to himself and to pretend to be normal. He raised a finger to his lips, shushing himself, absurdly pleased when he remembered to button and zip his flies. 

There was a door at the top of the staircase. He pushed in open and found himself in a dark, unfurnished corridor, with empty packing crates piled up along one side. He followed the emergency lighting and came out into the bright glare of a shop; some kind of sex shop, selling fetish wear and bondage gear, appropriately enough. 

The assistant behind the counter, who was dressed very like some of the clubbers below, stared at him, but said nothing. In fact, she seemed to shrink back at the sight of him. Liam brushed his clothes down, and pulled his coat tightly around himself, afraid that he was blood-stained. The thought made him remember what he had just done to William, the beautiful ivory back marred forever. God, the boy was sick! Far sicker than he'd ever realised, and, far from helping him, he'd just colluded in his fantasies and physically abused him too.

The memory of blood brought other, and even more chilling, knowledge to mind. What the hell had he been thinking of? All these weeks of being so safe, so careful - the only way in which he had not compromised himself, nor betrayed Francis - and he'd fucked the boy without a condom - torn him. All that blood, mingling and joining in that tight, clinging passage! Who could say what he'd just done to himself?

And his mouth really hurt from where William had bitten him. 

For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick again, but he shook the feeling off and pushed his way outside, where the cold night air hit him like an angry fist trying to knock sense into him. He looked at his watch, focusing with difficulty, and realised it was after eight-thirty.

Oh, God! Francis!

Fumbling his cell phone out of his coat pocket, Liam called the flat, only to hear the answer phone message click on. It wasn't the usual 'Liam and Francis can't take your call right now', though. Instead, it was Francis's voice, flat and weary-sounding. "If this is you calling, Liam," he said, "sod you."

And that was it. Tears sprang into Liam's eyes, both of anger and self-disgust. Part of him wanted to run back into the club and beat William and that stupid cunt of his to a pulp, the other part wanted to crawl into a dark corner and howl.

He started walking, not knowing where his feet were taking him.

*

When Liam found himself staring up at the impressive bulk of the Belgravia mansion of Anne LaHaye, he realised that he had no clear memory of how he had ever got there in the first place. The decision to come must have made sense at the time, he supposed, but now he had no idea what his fogged up brain had ever thought it could accomplish. He wasn't William's therapist any more. He was his abuser – his 'daddy'. Even if the source of all William's problems did lie with the woman inside this house, knowing about it now wouldn't help. His career – his life - was over. 

Belatedly, he remembered that he hadn't even asked William if he knew what had happened to Cordelia.

Liam rang the bell and waited. After a moment, a voice answered, foreign-sounding, Spanish perhaps, or more likely Filipino:

"Who is it?"

"My name is Liam O'Connor," he said. "I'd like to speak to Miss LaHaye?"

"Miss LaHaye not home," the voice said. "I give her message."

Liam stepped back from the door and looked up, to see a white face staring at him from an upper window. The curtain was drawn back hastily when whoever it was saw him looking.

He tried again. "Can you tell Miss LaHaye I'm her son's therapist," he said, "and I need to speak to her urgently?"

"I already tell you," the voice began, "she not –"

Then a new voice spoke.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Miss LaHaye?" Liam asked. "I'm your son's therapist, Liam O'Connor. Please, I need to speak to you."

"I'll come down," she said, "but you can't come in. No one that William knows can ever come in."

Liam waited, rubbing his hands together against the cold, thankful now for the after-effects of the drug which he suspected were still cushioning him from the full impact of what had happened and still making him feel at times that he was almost floating, as if detached from the reality of his situation. 

He took a moment to note that the graffiti had already been removed from the door, which once again presented a pristine, shiny surface to the world, the noticing of such details seeming like welcome evidence to him of his own continuing sanity. Then the door opened just a crack, coming to a halt at the length of a very tough-looking security chain. There was the sound of a large dog growling deep in the back of its throat. Liam wondered if it had caught the scent of blood off him.

"What do you want?" Anne LaHaye said, obviously standing just out of sight behind the door. "Why have you come here at this time of night? Did William give you my address?"

"No," Liam assured her. "I saw the news bulletin about the attempted break-in the other night. I wouldn't normally do this, Miss LaHaye, but I'm very concerned about William. I need to talk to you."

She laughed, and Liam realised that she was probably half-drunk.

"I've nothing to say about him," she said. "My son is a very sick boy, Mr O'Connor, in every sense of the word. I haven't seen him for six months and I hope I never see him again. I'll still pay his bills, if that's what you're worried about."

"No-" Liam began to protest, but she didn't give him the chance to finish.

"Do you know how many times he's ruined relationships for me? Five times, that's how many. He always comes up with some way of driving them away – every man I meet. He'd say, "They're not good enough for you, mum. You've got to wait for that one special person." God help me, I thought it was sweet. That was before he tried – before – Oh, why am I talking to you? You're not _my_ therapist. Go away, Mr O'Connor, and please don't come back."

The door began to close.

"Did he rape you?" Liam said. He didn't know where the words came from, they just blurted themselves out.

He didn't think she would answer, but she said, shortly:

"No. He didn't need to."

The door slammed in his face. 

*

On the train on the way home, Liam tried to piece things together, but nothing made real sense, even with the help of mind-altering drugs. It was like a horribly incestuous game of Happy Families, with himself roped in to play the role of father. He was chilled by what Anne LaHaye had both told, and not told, him. He'd known that William had had a fraught relationship with his mother, but never suspected anything quite this bad – and who was to say where the fault lay there? – and it chilled him all over again to remember the girl, Drusilla, calling herself William's 'mummy'. No wonder Anne LaHaye hated her. And father issues? Well, the boy had plenty of those, as he'd discovered to his cost over the last couple of months. 

The thought struck him suddenly that William had indeed been making his mother wait for the right person to come along and that inside the boy's confused head, that person was Liam himself. What would have happened next? Would William have tried to bring him together with Anne LaHaye in some way – totally at odds with his own nature and sexuality? Or, more likely, since William seemed to have found himself a surrogate mother already in this Drusilla girl, would he have been trying to induce Liam to have sex with her too? 

For a moment, Liam almost wanted to. He thought of the slim, frail-looking girl and he just wanted to hurt her; to throw her down and fuck her so brutally she'd scream and beg for mercy. The feeling coursed up through his body like poison and then was gone, leaving him shaken and ashamed. He'd never wanted a woman so much in his life – not since he'd got over the first teenage experiments and discovered how very much girls were not for him – and he'd certainly never wanted to hurt one before. 

What was happening to him? 

He grew abruptly certain that William recognised no sexual boundaries at all, and couldn’t see why others should do so either. He was busy re-making his family, whether they wanted to co-operate or not.

The train was half-empty, but, as Liam sat slumped in his corner seat, he once again had the sensation of being watched. Quickly, he raised his head, thinking that he'd caught another glimpse of black leather swirling away just out of his line of sight, but it was gone when he looked properly, just like before.

He stood up and gazed round the carriage, but there was no one there, save for a sleeping drunk and a young black couple busy kissing and obviously with no eyes for anyone else. 

Liam stared at them a moment, envying them their cocoon of intimacy; then he blinked sleepily, desperate to get home and collapse onto his bed, even though he knew that bed would be empty – now and probably forever.

As William had said, who would want him now?

Even so, when he opened the front door and went in, the emptiness seemed to stand up and hit him in the face. There were no lights on; no cooking smells - total silence save for the central heating boiler humming through its cycle. Liam switched on the hall light and stood for a moment, leaning against the wall. Gradually, his knees gave way and he sank to the floor, putting his head in his hands. Even after all that had happened, he'd half-believed that some miracle might have taken place, that Francis would still be here, waiting, and that he could pour out the whole foul story, and his lover would take him in his arms and say, "I understand. I know you couldn't help it. I'll stand by you."

But of course, he hadn't, because who would?

Liam levered himself up from the floor and staggered into the bathroom. He emptied his bladder into the toilet, noting with detachment that his aim was off and that urine had splattered the upturned seat and even the wall behind it; then turned to wash his hands. For a moment, his stomach seemed to turn over and make another bid to empty its contents, as he found himself staring into the mirror and couldn't see a reflection. He blinked, then realised this was because the mirror was covered in shaving foam, spelling out the words: "Sod you!" 

He turned on the tap and splashed water onto his hands and face, trying to ignore the message. Going into the bedroom, he saw that all the cupboards and drawers were open and Francis's things were already gone. Crawling fully clothed onto the bed, Liam hardly spared a moment to wonder where his lover was sleeping tonight, before he fell deeply unconscious.

*

He woke in the early hours of the morning, feeling desperately sick again, running to the bathroom just in time to vomit up the remaining contents of his stomach. There was very little in it, and he hunched over the toilet, retching miserably, then went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. 

For a while, he sat slumped at the kitchen table, sipping from the glass and trying to remember what had happened the previous night and why it was all so hazy. For that matter, where was Francis? He knew he should know, but somehow, the knowledge currently escaped him. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was six-o-clock, so he staggered into the living room and put the television on, thinking that maybe watching the news would help him remember all the things he seemed to have forgotten.

And it did, though not in the way he'd been expecting. 

Again, he found himself watching the local news bulletin for London, with a reporter standing on a canal towpath, well-wrapped against the cold, saying: " - the young woman was found shortly after three am this morning by a man out walking his dog on this stretch of the Regent's Park Canal, near London Zoo."

The reporter indicated the stretch of opaque dark water behind him, then continued:

"She was naked and her body was covered in what police say appear to be bite-marks - possibly inflicted by a wild animal of some kind - and suffering from almost total blood-loss. Doctors say that she's lucky to be alive although her condition continues to give great cause for concern and she is still unconscious. Police are hoping to talk to her later, if possible."

The reporter then turned to a policeman standing next to him, looking very grave and stiff, the way policemen being interviewed always seemed to, who said, when prompted: "This was a very serious attack on a defenceless young woman and we would ask anyone with any information to come forward as quickly as possible before the attacker strikes again, and for the public to be extra-vigilant and to call the police if they see anything unusual."

Liam sat, staring at the screen, unable to move. There was an odd, metallic taste in his mouth. Almost total blood loss, they'd said.

He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the injured girl was Cordelia, and he remembered William saying that the drink had had another 'special ingredient', as well as the ketamine; that he'd got it 'from a friend'. Oh, God! He'd drunk her blood! 

The events of the previous night were becoming clear in Liam's mind again, much though he now wished they weren't. He sat, frozen in his chair, panicked thoughts chasing each other round and round his head like the proverbial rat in a maze. His first impulse was to throw a few things in a suitcase and run like hell. He thought briefly of Ireland and Francis and grimaced with the pain of the loss, knowing that he had to put such thoughts behind him forever. 

His second thought was that he hadn't actually done anything wrong. He could inform on William and his friends and the boy would end up in Broadmoor, where he probably belonged. 

Even as he thought this, the idea seized him that if he sent the police to the vampire club in Soho they would – as in all those clichéd horror movies – find nothing there, and that, in fact, there never _had_ been anything there; that he'd dreamed it all. For a moment, he almost felt that if he wished hard enough it would become truth, but then the cold inescapable reality of what he'd just seen on the television came back to him. 

William was out there, sick and dangerous and probably coming for him right now.

He remembered all the times he'd felt like he was being watched on the train, and he realised with absolute certainty that William knew where he lived – had probably known from the first day they'd met. How long would it have been before the boy had turned on Francis and savaged him as he had Cordelia?

He reached for the phone, then hesitated, his panicked brain going off on another tack, asking him frantically to consider what if William _was_ caught? What might he have to say? What else might come out? 

What else?

He sat, unable to move -unable to decide. In his head, he heard William's voice saying with that smug, hateful certainty: "Where else can he go now? Who will have him, apart from us?" 

He had a sudden sense of William's presence, not far away and getting closer, inexorable and relentless as death; and he didn't know whether it was fear that caused his belly to knot and sweat to break out on his forehead, or anticipation. 

His brain seemed to be shutting down again, so that all he could see was that beautiful debauched face, tear-streaked and eager, wanting him - wanting him so much that it was prepared to kill to get him, and he wondered what else William might be capable of.

There was a knock on the door.


End file.
